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The saying in my time was, “Storm clouds are thrice cursed,” but I can’t talk like that and expect people to believe I’m a twenty-one-year-old American. I have to say things like, “Shit happens, man.”
They would have seen her and said something like, “Yo, bitch, the fuck you doin’ with my strawberries?” and those would have been their last words.
“Do you not find this age to be horribly strange, so much of the sublime alongside the abominable?”
<Will you tell me about Genghis Khan’s whores while I’m in the bath?> Hordes, not whores. He had both, though, now that you mention it. <Sounds like he was a busy guy.>
Come on, Oberon. Lunchtime. <Burgers?> He lifted his head up hopefully.
This good dog has captured my whole heart 🥹
<Well, then, give her back the check and send her packing! We don’t need to play her witch’s games. They always want to get you and your little dog, too.> I knew I never should have let you watch The Wizard of Oz. <Toto didn’t deserve that kind of trauma. He was so tiny.>
‘A friend will help ye move, Katie, but a really good friend will help ye move a body.’
“Yer a good lad, Atticus, mowin’ me lawn and killin’ what Brits come around.”
Leif returned in a minute, wearing a suit I had bought at the Men’s Wearhouse. “So did you like the way you looked wearing this?” he said, mocking the commercials as he tossed me a fresh T-shirt.
It gave me what Samuel Clemens used to call a shivering case of the fantods.
Cooperation makes fighting unnecessary—or, as Abraham Lincoln once said, “I destroy my enemies when I make them my friends.”
It reminded me that Oberon had magic of his own: He could focus my attention on how perfectly sublime life can be at times. Such moments are ephemeral, and without his guidance I might have missed many of them, working so hard to get somewhere that I would fail to recognize when I had arrived.
